The Litigators (10 page)

He must be crazy, Oscar thought.

But there was a small desk and a couple of chairs. David saw only the potential. And there were two windows. Sunlight would be a nice addition to his life. When it was dark outside, he would be at home with Helen, procreating.

Oscar swiped away a large spiderweb and said, “Look, David, we can offer a small salary, but you’re gonna have to generate your own fees. And this won’t be easy, at least initially.”

Initially? Oscar had been struggling to generate meager fees for over thirty years.

“What’s the deal?” David asked.

Oscar looked at Wally, and Wally looked at the wall. The two had not hired an associate in fifteen years, nor had they even considered doing so. David’s presence had caught them by surprise.

As the senior partner, Oscar felt compelled to take the initiative. “We can pay a thousand bucks a month, and you keep half of what you bring in. After six months, we’ll reevaluate.”

Wally jumped in quickly with “It will be rough at first, lots of competition out there on the streets.”

“We can toss some files your way,” Oscar added.

“We’ll give you a piece of the Krayoxx litigation,” Wally said, as if they were already banking huge fees.

“The what?” David asked.

“Never mind,” Oscar said with a frown.

“Look, guys,” David said with a smile. He was far more at ease than they were. “I’ve made a very nice salary for the past five years. I’ve spent a lot, but there’s a chunk in the bank. Don’t worry about me. I’ll take the deal.” And with that he thrust out a hand, shaking Oscar’s first, then Wally’s.

D
avid cleaned for the next hour. He wiped dust from the desk and chairs. He found an old Hoover in the kitchen and vacuumed the plank floors. He filled three large bags with trash and put them on the small porch out back. He stopped occasionally to admire the windows and sunlight, something he’d never done at Rogan Rothberg. Sure, on a clear day the view across Lake Michigan was captivating, but he had learned during his first year with the firm that time spent gazing out from the Trust Tower was time that could not be billed. Rookie associates were placed in bunker-like cubicles, where they toiled around the clock and, with time, forgot about sunshine and daydreaming. Now David couldn’t stay away from the windows. The view, admittedly, was not as captivating. Looking down, he could see the massage parlor, and beyond it the intersection of Preston, Beech, and Thirty-eighth, the very spot where he’d taken a piece of metal to the slimeball Gholston and chased him away. Beyond the intersection was a block of more converted bungalows.

Not much of a view, but David liked it anyway. It represented an exciting change in his life, a new challenge. It meant freedom.

Wally dropped in every ten minutes to check on things, and it became obvious he had something on his mind. Finally, after an hour, he said, “Say, David, I’m due in court at eleven. Divorce court. I doubt you’ve ever been there, so I was thinking you could tag along and I’ll introduce you to the judge.”

The cleaning had become monotonous. David said, “Let’s go.”

As they were leaving through the back door, Wally said, “Is that your Audi SUV?”

“It is.”

“Do you mind driving? I’ll do the talking.”

“Sure.”

As they were pulling onto Preston, Wally said, “Look, David, the truth is that I got a DUI a year ago and my license is suspended. There, I said it. I believe in being honest.”

“Okay. You’ve certainly seen me drunk enough.”

“I have indeed. But your cute wife told me you’re not much of a drinker. I, on the other hand, have quite a history. I’m sober for sixty-one days now. Every day is a challenge. I go to AA, and I’ve rehabbed several times. What else do you want to know?”

“I didn’t bring this up.”

“Oscar, he has a few strong ones every night. Believe me, with his wife, he needs them, but he keeps it under control. Some people are like that, you know. They can stop with two or three. They can skip a few days, even weeks, no problem. Others can’t stop until they black out, kinda like you yesterday.”

“Thanks, Wally. Where are we headed, by the way?”

“The Daley Center downtown, 50 West Washington. Me, I do fine for a while. I’ve quit four or five times, you know?”

“How would I know that?”

“Anyway, enough of the booze.”

“What’s wrong with Oscar’s wife?”

Wally whistled and looked out the side window for a moment. “Tough woman, man. One of these people who grew up in a nicer part of town, father wore a suit and tie to work, as opposed to a uniform, so she was raised to believe she’s better than most. A real snot. She made a major mistake when she married Oscar because she figured he was a lawyer, right? Lawyers make lots of money, right? Not exactly. Oscar has never made enough to satisfy her, and she hammers him relentlessly because she wants more money. I loathe the woman. You won’t
meet her, because she refuses to set foot in the office, which suits me just fine.”

“Why not get a divorce?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for years. Me, I got no problem with divorce. Been down that road four times.”

“Four times?”

“Yep, and every trip was worth the hassle. You know what they say—the reason divorce is so expensive is because it’s worth it.” Wally laughed at this stale punch line.

“Are you married now?” David asked, somewhat cautiously.

“Nope, back on the prowl,” Wally said smugly, as if no woman were safe. David couldn’t imagine a less attractive person hitting on females in bars and at parties. So, in less than fifteen minutes, he had learned Wally was a recovering alcoholic with four ex-wives, several trips through rehab, and at least one DUI. David decided to stop with the questions.

Over breakfast with Helen, he had dug a bit online and learned that (1) ten years earlier, Finley & Figg had settled a sexual harassment suit brought by a former secretary; (2) on one occasion, Oscar had been reprimanded by the state bar association for overcharging a client in a divorce case; (3) on two prior occasions, Wally had been reprimanded by the state bar association for “blatant solicitation” of clients who’d been injured in auto accidents, including an apparently messy affair involving Wally wearing doctor’s scrubs and barging into the hospital room of a badly wounded teenager who died an hour later; (4) at least four former clients had sued the firm alleging malpractice, though it was unclear if any recovered damages; and (5) the firm had been mentioned in a scathing article written by a professor of legal ethics who was sick of lawyers’ advertising. And all of this was just over breakfast.

Helen had been alarmed, but David took a hard, cynical line and argued that such dubious behavior couldn’t touch the cutthroat brand of law practiced by the fine folks at Rogan Rothberg. He had only to mention the Strick River case to win the argument. The Strick River in Wisconsin had been thoroughly polluted by an infamous chemical
company represented by Rogan Rothberg, and after decades of brutal litigation and skillful legal wrangling the dumping continued.

Wally was digging through his briefcase.

The skyline came into view, and David looked at the tall, majestic buildings crowded together in downtown Chicago. The Trust Tower was in the center. “I would be there right now,” he said softly, almost to himself. Wally looked up, saw the skyline, and realized what David was thinking.

“Which one?” Wally asked.

“The Trust Tower.”

“I was in the Sears Tower one summer, a clerk, after my second year of law school. Martin & Wheeler. And I thought that’s what I wanted.”

“What happened?”

“Couldn’t pass the bar exam.”

David added that to the growing list of defects.

“You’re not going to miss it, are you?” Wally asked.

“No, I’m breaking into a sweat right now, just looking at the building. I don’t want to get any closer.”

“Take a left on Washington. We’re almost there.”

I
nside the Richard J. Daley Center, they passed through security scanners and took the elevator to the sixteenth floor. The place was bustling with lawyers and litigants, clerks and cops, either hustling about or huddled in little pockets of serious conversations. Justice was looming, and everyone seemed to be dreading it.

David had no idea where he was going or what he was doing, so he stuck close to Wally, who seemed quite at home. David was carrying his briefcase, which held only a single legal pad. They passed courtroom after courtroom.

“Have you really never seen the inside of a courtroom?” Wally asked as they walked quickly, their shoes clicking along on the worn marble tile.

“Not since law school.”

“Unbelievable. What have you been doing for the past five years?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that. This is us,” Wally said, pointing to the heavy double doors of a courtroom. A sign said: “Circuit Court of Cook County—Divorce Division, Hon. Charles Bradbury.”

“Who’s Bradbury?” David asked.

“You’re about to meet him.”

Wally opened the door, and they stepped inside. There were a few spectators scattered through the rows of benches. The lawyers were seated up front, bored and waiting. The witness chair was empty; no trial was in progress. Judge Bradbury was reviewing a document and taking his time. David and Wally sat in the second row. Wally scanned the courtroom, saw his client, smiled, and nodded.

He whispered to David, “This is known as an open day, as opposed to a trial day. Generally speaking, you can get motions granted, routine matters approved, crap like that. That lady over there in the short yellow dress is our beloved client DeeAnna Nuxhall, and she thinks she’s about to get another divorce.”

“Another?” David asked as he glanced over. DeeAnna winked at him. Bleached blonde, huge chest, legs everywhere.

“I’ve done one already. This would be my second. I think she has a prior.”

“Looks like a stripper.”

“Nothing would surprise me.”

Judge Bradbury signed some papers. Lawyers approached the bench, chatted with him, got what they wanted, and left. Fifteen minutes passed, and Wally was getting anxious.

“Mr. Figg,” the judge said.

Wally and David walked through the bar, past the tables, and approached the bench, a low one that allowed the lawyers to almost see eye to eye with His Honor. Bradbury shoved the microphone away so they could chat without being heard. “What’s up?” he said.

“We have a new associate, Your Honor,” Wally said proudly. “Meet
David Zinc.” David reached over and shook hands with the judge, who received him warmly. “Welcome to my courtroom,” he said.

“David’s been with a big firm downtown. Now he wants to see the real side of justice,” Wally said.

“You won’t learn much from Figg,” Bradbury said with a chuckle.

“He went to Harvard Law School,” Wally said, even prouder.

“Then what are you doing here?” the judge asked, and appeared to be dead serious.

“Got sick of the big firm,” David said.

Wally was handing over some paperwork. “We have a slight problem here, Judge. My client is the lovely DeeAnna Nuxhall, fourth row left, in the yellow dress.” Bradbury peered slightly over his reading glasses and said, “She looks familiar.”

“Yep, she was here about a year ago, second or third divorce.”

“Same dress, I think.”

“Yes, I think so too. Same dress, but the boobs are new.”

“You getting any?”

“Not yet.”

David felt faint. The judge and the lawyer were discussing sex with the client in open court, though no one could hear.

“What’s the problem?” Bradbury asked.

“I haven’t been paid. She owes three hundred bucks, and I can’t seem to squeeze it out of her.”

“What parts have you squeezed?”

“Ha-ha. She refuses to pay, Judge.”

“I need a closer look.”

Wally turned and motioned for Ms. Nuxhall to join them at the bench. She stood and wiggled herself from between the benches, then proceeded to the front. The lawyers went mute. The two bailiffs woke up. The other spectators gawked. The dress was even shorter when she walked, and she wore platform spiked heels that would make a hooker blush. David eased as far away as possible when she joined the boys at the bench.

Judge Bradbury pretended not to notice her. He was far too occupied
with the contents of the court file. “Basic no-fault divorce, right, Mr. Figg?”

“That’s correct, Your Honor,” Wally replied properly.

“Is everything in order?”

“Yes, except for the small matter of my fee.”

“I just noticed that,” Bradbury said with a frown. “It looks as though there is a balance of $300, right?”

“That’s correct, Your Honor.”

Bradbury peered over his reading glasses and took in the chest first, then the eyes. “Are you prepared to take care of the fee, Ms. Nuxhall?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” she said in a squeaky voice. “But I’ll have to wait until next week. You see, I’m getting married this Saturday, and, well, I just can’t swing it right now.”

His eyes dancing from her chest to her face, His Honor said, “It’s my experience, Ms. Nuxhall, in divorce cases the fees are never paid after the fact. I expect my lawyers to be taken care of, to be paid, before I sign the final orders. What is the total fee, Mr. Figg?”

“Six hundred. She paid half up front.”

“Six hundred?” Bradbury said, feigning disbelief. “That’s a very reasonable fee, Ms. Nuxhall. Why haven’t you paid your lawyer?” Her eyes were suddenly wet.

The lawyers and spectators couldn’t hear the details, but they nonetheless kept their eyes on DeeAnna, especially her legs and shoes. David backed away even more, shocked at this shakedown in open court.

Bradbury moved in for the kill. He raised his voice slightly and said, “I’m not granting this divorce today, Ms. Nuxhall. You get your lawyer paid, then I’ll sign the papers. You understand this?”

Wiping her cheeks, she said, “Please.”

“I’m sorry, but I run a tight ship. I insist that all obligations be met—alimony, child support, legal fees. It’s just $300. Go borrow it from a friend.”